‘Right. Understood. Need a quick decision.’
She began pacing up and down, her tail swishing just one centimetre to the left, then one centimetre to the right. Her whiskers, all trimmed to the same length, were starched stiff as needles having been dipped purposely in wallpaper paste. Her hind legs kept exact pace with her forelegs – she was like two small nudniks in marching order.
‘Thing is this, chaps,’ she said. ‘I’ve been ordered – requested that is – to get you into shape for a long march. The long march. We have to find new quarters – our old barracks have been transformed into a pigsty. You can’t even hold a decent parade without skidding on some polished surface. So we have to smarten ourselves up, get a bit of discipline into our lines, and tackle the organized retreat. I don’t want a shambles. We have to leave in good order. Is that understood? Speak up, chaps.’
There was complete silence for a few moments, then someone, it must have been a library mouse, shouted, ‘Will someone please tell us what in Dickens’ name she’s talking about?’
Skrang stepped into the circle. ‘We have to leave the House,’ she said, ‘is everyone ready to do so?’
‘Why didn’t she say so?’ grumbled the same voice. ‘Well I’m ready. The sooner the better.’
Gorm cried, ‘Understand this. It’s coming on winter out there. We’ve got to find another house, which won’t be easy. There’ll be hostile tribes to encounter. Mice will die. But I promise you we’ll find some unoccupied territory, somewhere – a house where we can settle down once more and get some good old-fashioned wars going—’ he smirked. ‘A few raids on each other, just like the old days. I can’t remember when I last yelled “Assundoon” down the hallway.’
‘I can remember when you last sank your teeth into my butt,’ yelled someone at the back. ‘I haven’t forgotten that – I owe you one.’
‘If that’s you, Ulf,’ growled Gorm, ‘you’ll get your chance, son, don’t worry. There’s still some fight left in the old mouse yet.’
‘Who’s going to lead us?’ cried Rhodri. ‘Who’s going to be the pathfinder?’
‘I am of course,’ rumbled Gorm. ‘Who else?’
There was silence again, before Astrid stepped forward.
‘Not you Gorm, I’m sorry. You might be a fine old warrior – no-one would dispute that – but you’re no navigator of the wilderness. You know nothing about the Outside world. We need someone with knowledge if we’re to make the journey to the promised house safely.’
‘If I say I’m leading, I am, you worn-out harlot!’ snarled Gorm. ‘What’s a strumpet like you telling me what to do?’
‘Won’t wash, Gorm,’ said the loud voice of Whispersoft. ‘She’s right.’
Frych said, ‘The female’s status is thus – she may have exceeded the bounds of propriety recently, with her liaisons in dark corners – but she is still the high priestess. Her prophecies have always come true. She has the special favours of the Shadows and the gods, and her utterances have to be taken as genuinely serious prognostications. We require a leader who can guide us through perilous straits to an unknown destination – I myself propose Pedlar, the yellow-necked Outsider.’
Astrid closed her eyes then opened them.
‘Pedlar is the chosen one!’ she cried. ‘I have seen it!’
‘Damn Shadow-talking trollop,’ cried Gorm. ‘Will I be thrust aside like this? Like hell!’
Ulf stepped forward. ‘This involves the whole mouse nation, not just the Savages. For once you’ll do as you’re told Father Gorm. Pedlar is the right mouse to lead us – if he agrees. I can’t think of a better one. He’s honest and straightforward. He has courage and resourcefulness. And most important of all – he knows what it’s like out there.’
‘I tell you—’ snarled Gorm, making the nearest mice to him back away rapidly.
‘You want to fight the whole nation?’ said Ulf.
‘If need be!’ cried the old warrior, vehemently regretting his invitation to Pedlar to join the meeting.
‘Step down,’ shouted several mice in the crowd. ‘You’re making yourself look a fool.’
‘AM I, BY DAMN!’ roared Gorm. ‘I’ll—’
He was immediately ringed by a dozen tough mice from all tribes, including his own.
One of them was, astoundingly, Phart.
‘Look,’ cried Phart. ‘You ain’t goin’ to ruin this for us, Gorm, with all yer bluster. We’ve gotta get out of this place. It’s killin’ us – and you ain’t the mouse to do it. Pedlar is. I hate the self-righteous bleeder as much as you do, but he’s the one Gorm, like it or lump it.’
Gorm stared around him, seeing Gytha Finewhiskers and Elfwin, members of his very own tribe threatening him, and knew he had no chance.
‘I won’t forget this,’ he snarled. ‘Once the march is over – I’ll have that Pedlar for breakfast.’
Pedlar came forward to acknowledge his destiny. You are the One who will walk with the many.
But just as he did so, there was an almighty shriek from Gorm. ‘ASSUNDOON!’
The leader of the Savages then launched himself at Pedlar, who quickly leapt out of the way.
The crowd scattered, forming a huge space for the two combatants.
Gorm was clearly angry that his first pounce should have missed. He began by hunching his back to make himself look bigger. Then he drummed his tail on the ground and stamped his hind feet. He followed up this threatening body language with more high-piercing shrieks, designed to intimidate his opponent.
Instead of just standing watching this show, Pedlar was carrying out the same rituals, trying to menace his adversary before the actual fighting began. Now that he’d found his status as Pedlar the Pathfinder, his whole destiny made sense and he did not intend to be deprived of it.
It was Pedlar who made the first bite. He rushed forward as soon as Gorm’s aggressive display was over and bit the chieftain on the back. Gorm tried a counter-bite during Pedlar’s retreat, but failed to connect. This set the pattern for the combat, because clearly Gorm’s reflexes were not as fast as those of Pedlar. Some said it was to do with the fact that the Savage leader was getting old. Others said that Pedlar’s time in the wild accounted for his sharpness.
Not that Gorm failed to get a bite in the whole match. Indeed, he sank several incisors into that yellow-necked creature he hated so much. In fact, they were nastier bites than those which Pedlar inflicted on his opponent, for unlike battles to protect territory the idea of single combat is not to wound or draw blood, but to inflict as many bites as possible. There are very few fatalities in single combat.
Eventually, Pedlar began to wear Gorm down. Gorm’s attacks became fewer and less vigorous than Pedlar’s. The Outsider inflicted bite after bite on the older mouse, until Gorm became weary and was spending the whole time defending himself. He became slower and slower, his eyes blinking in pain, his legs weak. His tongue lolled, he gasped for breath. Some of the spectators turned away, unable to watch the demise of a great and terrible mouse in this way. Gunhild sobbed openly. Ulf swallowed and hid his face. Astrid looked very, very sad. Finally, Gorm was tottering and wheezing, not even bothering to return the bites he was receiving.
Still Pedlar did not let up. He was now Pedlar the One. But he knew if he stopped attacking, Gorm would regain his strength and perhaps counter-attack and win. So the Hedgerow mouse continued the assault, even when Gorm rolled on his back in an effort to avoid the onslaught.
Inevitably, Gorm had to make the noises that meant he accepted defeat. Already he had passed the point where any normal mouse would have given in. He was a tough old brute, but he had met his match at last. His was now a hopeless cause and to continue would be to court death, for the biting would not end with Pedlar. The mighty had fallen and those whom the mighty had oppressed would want to get their own back.
Once the necessary and now expected display of humility was forthcoming from Gorm, Pedlar ceased his attacks. He had won the single combat. For the
first time in his life, Gorm had lost in a one-to-one fight.
As soon as Pedlar stopped attacking, dozens of mice rushed forward and began to bite the helpless Gorm. He lay on the floor, completely submissive, while the bites rained down on his back, head and flanks. This was the loser’s punishment, to be relegated to the lowest rank of the social order. Chieftainship was a position he would have to regain by forcing the other members of his tribe to submit to him again, one after the other, climbing back up the ladder. If he failed in any one confrontation he would lose his rank permanently.
‘All right,’ cried Pedlar, ‘that’s enough. Leave him alone now.’
A few more bites and Gorm was left to himself, a pathetic heap on the floor of the cupboard-under, covered in saliva from the mouths of his fellow mice. There was very little blood visible – where the incisors had pierced the skin they had done so cleanly – but the pain from the bruises and the humiliation must have been terrible to bear.
It was Astrid who went over to him.
‘Gorm, are you all right?’
‘Leave me alone,’ he hissed. ‘Just leave me alone.’
‘You did the best you could,’ she said. ‘He was too strong for you.’
Gorm-the-old was silent for a while, then he turned his great head towards his erstwhile concubine.
‘That’s not what I want to hear,’ he said softly. ‘It doesn’t help in the least. Tell me he’s collapsed and died. Tell me he’s shrivelled into something that can be packed into a walnut shell and dropped down the well. Tell me his eyes have fallen out and he’s blind.’
‘I don’t think any of those things have happened,’ replied Astrid.
‘Then there are no gods and my prayers go unanswered, but don’t tell me he’s strong. Did you think that would cheer me up, strumpet?’
Astrid shook her head sadly and left Gorm lying there. She rejoined the Allthing. Pedlar was just being elected leader of the expedition to find what he called the ‘Promised House’. He said he would take his duties seriously, would elect others to help him, would do his utmost to fulfil his task honourably.
Astrid knew he would do all he undertook. He was the reliable one, the trustworthy one. He had charisma too. And perhaps he had something to prove. But he wasn’t the great Gorm. He didn’t have Gorm’s thunder, Gorm’s balls, Gorm’s utter disregard for anything fearful. There would never be another like Gorm. Gorm was the lion and the eagle rolled into one.
Astrid hoped this would not affect the expedition. They would need all the resilience they could muster. They could not afford to doubt.
Unfortunately, when the mighty fell it left a big hole in the confidence of the mouse nation.
PART THREE
Journey to the Promised House
TRAPPISTES
AGREAT EXPEDITION HAS TO BE PREPARED FOR, mentally, before the embarking.
The mice used the term expedition, rather than the more correct exodus, because they could not bear to think they were never coming back. Everyone but Pedlar had been born in the House, their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents had been born and had died there. The House was their soul country, where their spirits resided. It was the land of their fathers and mothers, their temples, their gods. To leave the House without the faint hope that they might return was too heavy a load to carry. So they kidded themselves with the word expedition, which implied a homecoming, if not for them personally, for their offspring or their offspring’s offspring.
Astrid was to be Pedlar’s second-in-command, while Gunhild had promised to organize the walkers into manageable groups each with a mouse at their head. Since it was winter and there had been few new births for some time, the young were all old enough to walk for themselves, and needed no adult mouse to carry them.
They spent a whole night and day, a whole twenty-four hours, preparing themselves spiritually and mentally, for the leaving. To the House it must have seemed that the mice had gone already, for they simply lay quietly in their favourite places and contemplated the past, seeing old ghosts romping through the rafters, down the hallway, over the landing. They were saying goodbye to their ancestors. There were certain corners to bid farewell to, there were nooks and crannies to mark before leaving, secret places to fix in the memory.
If there was any doubt about going, it was dispelled one hour of a day when the mice were awakened from sleep by terrible sounds. There was smashing and crashing, thunder down the hall and along the landing. Some nudnik youths had entered the House and were breaking windows, running with hobnail boots through passageways and rooms.
Apart from the noise, which frightened the whole mouse nation, the intruders created a tremendous amount of damage. Floorboards were kicked until they broke; doors were torn off their hinges; a small fire was lit on one of the bedroom floors; the banister rails were ripped out; light bulbs were used as bombs. For two hours it was bedlam in the House, then the roaring nudnik youths left, riding away on bicycles down the lane.
Winter now came into the House through the holes in the windows, and through the open back doorway. Jack Frost came in and nipped the mice painfully as they lay in their nests. Old leaves filled the House as they were blown through the gaps. It became a damper and more depressing place for those used to comfort, dryness and warmth. The House was indeed submitting itself to the forces of Nature.
Astrid bid adieu to her Shadows and they wept to see her go. She was the only living thing that had taken notice of them, had made a connection with them, and there was great sorrow amongst them. They told her they would be less black without her, less eerie of a moonlit night, less inclined to inhabit those corners where she had been most likely to be found.
Look after yourself, Astrid, they said.
‘You too,’ she replied, sadly.
We expect you’ll find some new Shadows to talk to – you’ll soon forget us.
‘I’ll never forget my old Shadows,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll see you in every change of light.’
In another part of the House, Phart and Flegm were trying to bolster each other’s courage.
‘You’ll be all right, mate – it won’t be as garsly as you fink, you wait an’ see.’
‘Oh, I’m not worried for me, pal. It’s you what worries me. You’re a bit of a homebody, you know.’
‘Still, so long as we’re together, it don’t matter do it? There’s nuffink that can defeat the two of us together…’
Thus did the two cellar mice encourage one another and build their confidence for the great ordeal ahead.
Frych-the-freckled called her whole tribe together.
‘Tome-devourers,’ she cried. ‘One has assembled this solemn congregation in order to apprise the multitude of what one must expect on the Great Highway. There will be vast deserts to circumnavigate; there will be great lakes to traverse; there will be mountain ranges, dense jungles, hedgerows and wide ditches. This will be no minor excursion. One must gird one’s loins!’
The congregation knew where their loins were. They might not understand much else Frych said, but they certainly knew where to find their loins. Every member of the audience snatched at this sentence eagerly. Each mouse bent its head and looked through the tunnel of its legs and stared at its loins, wondering how to gird this vital area of the anatomy. What were the advantages of the suggested girding? What were the consequences of failing to gird? Obviously it helped one cross deserts, seas, mountains, jungles and ditches, but no-one, except presumably Frych, knew exactly how it accomplished this aid. Nonetheless, this was exactly the sort of practical instruction the mice felt they needed at this point.
‘One expects,’ cried Frych, looking down and finding every head stuck between each set of front legs, ‘attention when one delivers lectures on survival. Now is not the time to contemplate one’s navel…’
In the attic a very similar talk was being given by Whispersoft, who praised his tribe for being the best in the House and said he knew they wouldn’t let him down.
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br /> ‘We are a tribe to be proud of,’ he boomed. ‘Our members have defeated roof rats, defied owls and successfully defended the attics against attacks from other tribes. Now we are called upon to leave our homes and find new attics where we can settle in peace, away from these helmeted hills, these peacock-feathered valleys. One of our very own has been chosen to lead us in this enterprise – Pedlar, whom some call an Outsider, but who came among us and chose an Invisible for his mate—’
Pedlar, at the back of the crowd, nodded to acquaintances and friends who turned to acknowledge him. Treadlightly snuggled up closer to him, possessively. She knew he was feeling the weight of responsibility that he carried and she was going to have to support him a great deal in the time ahead.
In the cupboard-under – for the kitchen had become far too draughty a place – the Savage Army were listening to their new chieftain (or general, as she preferred to be called) Gunhild. They had been arranged in neat rows by Gunhild herself, each mouse exactly one whisker’s length from the mouse at his side, all sitting high-nose. They formed, so Gunhild thought, a beautiful square of mice. She had made sure those with the darker coats were on the four corners of the square, fading to the lightest coats in the centre. Symmetry, she told them, was what it was all about. No-one, she said, respects a sloppy army. Neatness was at the core of every successful expedition into the wilderness.
‘March or die,’ she snapped, ‘that is our watch phrase. March or die! I want no slackers. Smart, disciplined soldiers is what I expect. I’m going to assign ranks before we leave; there’ll be corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, majors, colonels, brigadiers – enough for everyone to have one. But you have to earn your rank in my army, so I’ll be watching each of you closely, gauging your worth, assessing your capabilities. Pedlar is to be our field marshal on this march and I shall take my orders from him. These orders will be filtered down through the ranks, from the brigadiers, to the colonels, to the majors, and so on. It is essential that each and every one of you keeps themselves posted of any such order. You’ll put the rest of the troop out of step otherwise…’
House of Tribes Page 33